No, but Carlo has a good point, I guess. Any objections?

Not counting Peter, you and Jill, we have 9 males and 4 females with the loss of Ben.

A few minutes later, I stop for gas. The T-bird gulps it down. Two boys pull up in a tricked-out Honda and sit ogling me. As I walk in to pay, one says, "Boy, would I like to fuck her." "In that `Bird," says the other. Like most boys, it's all talk.

Soon I'm on my way down 395, tapping my fingers to music on the radio, still burning a little over those two crews watching Pere. Take Highway 50 east to Kit Kat Drive. Pull in to Walter's junkyard and look around. This can be a dangerous place. Take the Colt M1911A1 from under the seat, jack a round into the chamber and stuff it down the back of my jeans. Then I shrug into the jean jacket. As I walk, I hear footsteps behind me. Sure enough, the fourteen-year-old girl is following.

Dogs are barking from the pens as I walk up to the office when the door opens with a squeak. A big oaf with a shaved head and greasy coveralls strides out and looks at me, startled.

"Hey, Walter," I say.

"Holy shit!" he rasps in his squeaky voice, picking me up. "Goddamn it all to hell if it ain't good to see you again!" he says, setting me down. "The fuck're you doin' out here, Jill?"

"Need a secure place to store my stuff through the end of the year," I tell him. "Wednesday, about ten thousand square feet."

"Hell, I can do that without throwing anybody out. Been selling shit off, Price? Too good to work on your own stuff any more?"

"Fuck you, Walter," I say. "I just don't do as much any more."

"Just givin' you shit, Jill. Look at you. Titties bustin' outta your shirt! You're hot!"

"Thanks, Walter. I wore this outfit for you."

"Lyin' bitch," he says. "Me `n the boys are havin' lunch out back. Wanna dog an' a cold beer?"

"Sure," I say, and follow him around back where a half dozen felons with jailhouse tats are standing around a steel drum cut in half length-wise to form a barbecue. A big cooler piled high with ice melting in the sun is keeping the longnecks cold.

"Hey boys," roars Walter. "We got company! Meet my friend, Jill Price."

The biggest is a bald pirate covered with tattoos on his arms and chest. He is powerfully built from years of pumping iron in the pen. He turns to look at me and I know why I brought the Colt.

The girl is standing beside Walter, watching me. Bothers me, how real she looks. She takes a bite of her hot dog and watches me as she chews.

Walter calls out their names while their eyes move over me. "Emmett, give the lady a dog and a beer," says Walter.

Tall as I am, I'm small among these guys. They stare at me silently as I walk up to Emmett who smiles as he hands me a beer and a dog, no napkin or plate.

"I'm hungry and thirsty myself," says a big Mexican with tattoos on massive pecs and biceps. "Walter, you mind if I have my dessert first?" he asks, looking me over.

Walter sits in a cheap lawn chair and takes a bite out of his dog, swilling it down with beer. "Be nice to the lady, boys `cause she's not" he says. The Mexican glances at Walter. "Not what?" he asks.

"She's not nice and she's not a lady!" roars Walter, laughing at the old joke. He used to say that back in `67 when we ran the streets together. The Mexican looks at me, shrugs and fetches another dog.

The pirate drains his beer and swings the bottle at my head. I dodge the swing, empty my hands, snatch the Colt as I turn and point it at his face.

For a moment, he stares cross-eyed at the Colt. Smiling, he spreads his hands in surrender. When he looks up and sees my expression, his eyes go wide.

Pull the trigger twice. He slumps to the ground, head wounds leaking into the dirt. Stare at the body. Guess I'm still angry about those crews outside Pere. Walk to the barbecue for another dog, stuffing the Colt back into my pants.

"Ha!" barks Walter. "Told you, boys. Treat the lady nice `cause she's not. Emmett, get the wheelbarrow and stuff that down the hole."

Take my fresh dog and beer and sit in a chair beside Walter. The girl steps over to stand just behind my right shoulder. I ask, "Owe you anything for shooting your boy?"

He shakes his head. "Wasn't working for me. "Sides, I warned him, didn't I?"

"Like the gentleman you are." Taking a bite, I tell him as I chew, "I'm putting up a new shop just north of Carson airport, Walter. Tile floors, heating and air, the whole deal."

"Oh, I get it," he says. "You're selling off your old, beat-up shit and keeping the new stuff so it looks good in your new boutique shop. Got a buyer for your old equipment?"

I nod and swallow. "Lars."

"Sumbitch still owes me twenty grand. He's got cash now?"

I nod again, finishing my dog. "Paid me in cash when he picked up the equipment."

"Cocksucker," he says. "Gonna pay that boy a visit. Get `im for travel expenses too."

"You're a hard man, Walter," I tell him.

He looks at me. "Double-tap Bomar in the face and then eat lunch? That's hard."

Emmett walks up and says, "I stuffed that down the hole like you said, Walter. Can I have some more lunch now?"

"Yeah," says Walter. "When you're done eatin', get the Caddie out. We're drivin' to Salt Lake. Tell Willie and Floyd too." He looks at me and adds, "We'll go see Lars."

"When?" asks Emmett.

"Soon's you're done eatin', Emmett," says Walter, patiently. Walter turns to me. "My sister's kid, you know."

My empty beer bottle misses the trash barrel, sliding across broken glass. "Thanks for the dog and the beer, Walter," I tell him. "I can tell my boys to move my stuff in?"

"Number one-twelve. Tell `em to call ahead to the gate guard."

Slap a hand on his knee and push myself up. As I walk away, I hear a couple of wolf whistles so I stop and turn. Every one of them ducks for cover, which makes Walter laugh and stomp his foot on the ground.

Shove the Colt back under the seat. That's another thing I got to do: check the brakes on the T-Bird and clean the Colt. On my way through Carson City, I stop to call Margaret. Let out the contract to move all my equipment to Walter's secure facility, number one-twelve, and make sure they call ahead. Cut a check to Walter's storage company for the remainder of the year. She asks if I am behaving myself. "I haven't broken a law in twenty minutes," I tell her. Driving, I think about the pirate, wide-eyed. Assault with intent to rape is a capital offense in my book.

Mom brings up a point that we discussed back in Chapter 1, Part 9. Alan and Jules said some things that I've been thinking about ever since.

Here's Alan's quote: "What if she is a predator, a killer, but with a code? What if the cops and the military, hell the entire government knows she's operating and won't lift a finger because they know that she hunts down and kills one type of human—the convicted, violent felon."

And Jules' quote: "I've heard it said that society produces mass murderers, serial killers, sociopaths and psychopaths. What if modern society has produced a new pathology as Alan suggests? The gunslinger metaphor we've been using works, except she has no interest in killing civilians at all. Okay, maybe she doesn't care whether we live or die, but people, maybe, as Alan suggests, she feeds on violent felons and her success rate is high. What's so bad about that?"

I bring up these quotes now as a logical extension of Suze's and Cyril's comments about what society can and cannot do. Maybe what we have here is Jill Price doing the job that society cannot or will not do. Maybe society is developing a new pathological breed: a killer targeted at convicted, violent felons released into society.

Thank you, Lucia. My daughter has just written the words that are in my heart but that I could not find. Remember what Stephanie told us about feeling safe? She said that even in her own home she never felt as safe as she felt when she was with Jill.

Extend that to society. The legal system has become increasingly concerned with the rights of felons, even convicted felons. Meanwhile, many of our lawmakers and officers of the court ignore their responsibility for the safety of citizens. As a result, I no longer feel as safe as I used to feel when I was a girl. Well, I don't know and at this moment, I do not care how many convicted felons the woman has killed; she has made society safer for all of us.

Suze, would you please tell us what you think of what Lucia and I have written?

Amalie, your words cut me to the heart. I am a fool. Stephanie, you're right—the truth regardless of consequence. Maria, you have my answer.

Yeah, figured walking into the midst of them, nipples poking my shirt like that would get at least 2 excited. Didn't work.

Close combat with edged weapons is nearly perfect—nothing like it.

In Reno, I take I-80 west and exit and turn south. Crossing the Truckee River, I turn west again. Along the river is a stone fence hidden by tall evergreens. At the far end of the trees stands a little house with a driveway leading to a garage—a front for a temple, grounds and a dojo. I pull up to the garage door where a keypad and a camera lens are hidden in the shrubbery. I key in my combination and the garage door opens. Inside is a small parking garage with a few dozen spaces.

In a small cloakroom I remove my jacket and boots and slip my feet into one of many pairs of slippers lying there. Through the door, I enter a quiet, dimly lit hallway where the sensei, aging and bald, waits for me. We exchange bows. He greets me in a soft voice, leading me through the interior rooms finished in dark wood with tatami on the floor.

"As you see, Jiw, the interior is finished, including the kitchen and the living areas upstairs." He leads me outside to a quiet pine glade that looks and feels like northern Honshu. "The eastern gardens are ready," he continues. "Work on the other gardens proceeds satisfactorily."

Late afternoon, I drive across town to the restaurant I own with Mei's father until he finishes buying me out. Eat a light meal and promise to return more often now that I live in Reno.

Drive south and west into the foothills where Eagle Homes, a Pere subsidiary, has contracted with a developer to build a gated community called Baron Ranch. The guards wave me through. None of the landscaping is started. The contractor has built twelve homes and all are occupied. Several more homes are in process.

Pull into the garage and walk in through the big kitchen. A counter separates it from the living room, which has a pool table at one end and a comfortable sectional around a fireplace at the other. A half dozen bar stools are scattered here and there around the pool table.

Carry my swords down the hall. My bedroom has two walk-in closets. One has a half-dozen business suits that I purchased when Keiko took me to Los Angeles for a fitting—a torturous experience. Four women fluttered about me like pastel birds, chattering. Goddamn near hung `em from their heels and sliced their throats. A picture flashes in my mind. A woman walks into an upscale shop on Rodeo Drive and sees four stylishly dressed women hanging from the ceiling, their eyes staring; bejeweled fingers dipped in red, spreading pools. Shake my head at the image.

The other closet has a six-by-four-foot safe. Set down the gear, twirl the knob several times and push down the big handle. Inside are more weapons, ammunition, a few bundles of cash and two bags of gold coins. I stuff the swords inside and lock it.

Strip naked and toss my clothes at a hamper. Out to the T-Bird, I grab the duffel from the trunk and switch the Colt inside with the one under the driver's seat. I pull a gun-cleaning kit from one of the kitchen drawers and sit at the bar to strip down the Colt M1911A1 and clean it thoroughly.

Enjoy working with my hands. It calms me so I think clearly. I've done this since I was a kid, stripping down appliances or motors and putting them back together. Finished, I stuff the pistol into the duffel and set it by the door.

I'm a big fan of the movies. I can visualize this scene as Jill walks into her house. It's so revealing of her character. The woman has swords. She not only knows how to use them, she's looking forward to the next time she can use them. She has lots of money and she doesn't apologize about it. She has guns and knows how to clean them and finds joy in doing it, efficiently and capably. Oh, and she cleans her gun naked. No bullshit sentimentality, just clean, bright purpose. God, I love her.

I love you, Jill. Please don't marry that bastardrat Ian who lives with his mother and has no visible means of support. Marry me instead.

Bastardrats boths Ian under Carlo. Woman loves on me, little foolish prickadees.

Waiting after Ben die some time miss him fifty hundred waves. Mic, we need another peoples who knows Jill from long time going away. Find then get.

Oh please Mic, you of all people should know that cowards retire many times but the valiant taste of retirement but once. Why else would you and I still be working?

Our scribe has left out several facts. Since 1984, I have been under house arrest as a condition of not serving a prison sentence for attempted murder. I purchased my lifetime parole by cooperating with UK and US authorities to finger my employers, so I am not only a murderer but a dirty rat as well, to use Cagney's term.

Although I lost the capacity for tears decades ago, I sighed and lifted a glass when Ben stepped out with dignity. Jill, Jules and I were probably the only ones with a dry eye. Although my heart is flint, my mind is still exceptionally keen and I intend to contribute.

Jill was my first and only failure. To succeed as a paid assassin, one must know one's target. I have known Jill Price for 23 yrs. Although I will never have the opportunity due to the conditions of my house arrest, I would take a bullet for Jill any day.

Finally, I do not have Jill's or Mic's thick skin. I am sensitive, mean and extremely dangerous, even while caged. So when you feel tempted to pick up a stick and poke at me through the bars, trying to get a reaction, please think again and remember this: I have the same access Cyril has. Hello, Cyril. How's your mum? Doing well, I hope.

Honestly old girl, we could have handled this off-line.

Amalie, may I say what a refreshing breeze your presence in the group has been. I look forward to your honest and refreshing candor. Suze, I'm looking forward to hearing you backup your criticisms. And to all of you in the group, I was just kidding. Cyril will tell you what a kidder I can be.

How's that upscale neighborhood you bought into decades ago, lady? Had any Black families move in recently?

Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Jill has finished cleaning her pistol and is going out for the evening.

Shower and dress in faded blue jeans that fit me like skin and a low-cut sweater that's loose but clingy in provocative ways. Dressed, I check myself in the mirror.

Bruno and my family tell me I have an "interesting" face. The truth is my face is plain except for the three-inch scar. Brown hair to my shoulders, nice tits and a round little ass help my appearance. The main thing I have is . . . I know what I want.

Drive downtown and park the T-Bird in the four-story parking garage beside Doc's Place. Raise the soft-top, lock it and walk into the closest front entrance. I'm standing next to a jazz group playing to a lounge with a bar at the far end.

People watch me as I survey the lounge. A slim blonde with large eyes is sitting at a table with three other women. She never takes her eyes off mine as I walk over, take a chair from another table and sit beside her. I say, "Hey."

"Hey yourself."

"Name's Jill," I tell her, "Jill Price."

"Lucy Lamb," she says.

A cocktail waitress walks up. "Vodka rocks with lime, please," I say, and look at Lucy.

"Another Collins please," she says, pointing at her empty glass.

Pull a ten from my back pocket and drop it on her tray.

Lucy says she works at the Flamingo across the street. The other women work at casinos nearby. Tell her I'm interviewing for a job here on Saturday morning.

"With Louise?" asks Lucy.

"Louise Northcutt, yeah," I say. "Know her?"

"Yeah," says Lucy. "That communication manager job?"

"Yep," I say.

"Good luck," says Lucy with a grin. "That search has been a turnstile." Maybe that's why Louise advertised in a Salt Lake City newspaper. She looks me over and adds, "You'll probably get it though, if you wear a business suit."

"I have one of those," I tell her. "In fact, I have two in case I mess one up."

The waitress serves our drinks. One of the other girls, a big one who looks a little pissed off at me for intruding, asks, "You like the singer?"

Look at her for a three-count before turning my head to look at the short and slim, dark-haired jazz singer, backed up by a piano and a sax. She's singing to the piano player and he's playing for her. Turning back to the big one, I say, "Seems pre-occupied. Why?"

She smiles mockingly, and says, "Lucy's crazy over her. Asked us to come and tell her if she has a shot."

Turn to Lucy. She shrugs and looks at her drink, raises it and takes a sip. Leaning, I place my lips near Lucy's ear and whisper, "When was the last time you made out, Lucy?"

She turns her head my way and whispers, "About a month ago."

"Jazz on the stereo with a fireplace and a comfortable couch. What do you say?"

"Let's go," says Lucy.

"My wheels are in Doc's garage," I tell her.

Lucy stands and I follow her lead. She looks around the table and says, "Thanks for showing up, girls. I'm taking off with Jill. I'll see you later, okay?" The three stare open-mouthed as we leave. Lucy slips her arm into mine as we cross the street.

"That was smooth," I say.

"Smooth?" asks Lucy.

"Yeah," I tell her. "Usually women get everyone up for hugs and ask about friends. Takes a goddamn half hour just to leave a bar."

"Jill, don't bullshit me," says Lucy, "You picked me out and talked me away from my friends and out of there in ten minutes tops. Wow! This is your car?" Lucy exclaims as I unlock it. "It's beautiful. Where did you get it?"

"Girlfriend and I visited her mother in St. George, Utah," I tell her, opening the door for her. I watch as I walk around the rear but she doesn't reach across to unlock the driver-side door. Self-centered and lazy—Lucy's not a keeper. Slide into my seat, start up the Bird and lower the top. "The woman's husband found out he had terminal cancer, so he ordered this car and drove it less than three thousand miles. After he died, she stored it under a tarp in the garage." Lucy watches me as I pull into light traffic. "Anyway," I continue, "The car cost fifty-five hundred new in '62. Offered her five and she took it."

"Generous offer," says Lucy. "What year did this happen?"

Glance at her, thinking. "Three years ago," I say, "Fall of '81."

Lucy looks the convertible over and asks, "How much more you put in it, Jill?"

"Another three grand," I tell her.

"Probably worth twice what you've got in it," she says. "How long have you known you're a lesbian?"

Clumsy and desperate segue. "Been chasing skirt since I was a teenager," I say. "You?"

"A year," she says. "I came out last March."

We smile as one veteran to another. "Hand me your driver's license, Lucy." Pull up to the gate and hand her license to the guard, who looks at her closely. He hands it back and waves us through.

"Good security," she says. "This is Baron Ranch, right?"

"Yep." Pull into the garage, turn off the ignition and lead her inside.

"Bathroom's down the hall," I tell her as I switch on the gas fireplace and the stereo. Saxophone fills the house, seeming to come from everywhere.

Lucy looks about and then walks back to the bathroom, closing the door so I walk back to my room and strip naked. After I pee, I clean up and stretch to get some juices flowing. When I hear her walk out of the bathroom, I follow and find her sitting on the couch, still dressed. She watches me as I walk over and stand before her. "Hope you're not shy, Jill," she says. "People say I'm a little aggressive."

Smile and say, "Humor, good idea. Releases tension and relaxes your partner." Straddle her thighs slowly. Lucy sets her hands on my thighs. Take her face in my hands and gently lay her head back against the couch cushion. Begin giving her a facial massage, moving the pads of my fingertips over her skin and scalp.

Lucy closes her eyes. "Why are you covered in bruises and shrapnel wounds?"

Kiss her gently on the forehead, temples, and eyes, rubbing gentle circles on her neck and the base of her skull. Brush my lips against her face, her throat and behind her ear. Whisper, "A word of advice."

"Don't ask questions?"

"Live the moment," I say softly, and cover her mouth with mine. Her caresses reveal her recent experience.

"Jill," she murmurs, "I work at six-thirty in the morning."

Is that all you're going to post, Mic?

The story continues. Jill and Lucy have spent the night together and Jill is just waking up.

My first conscious thought is that I want to check the brake adjustment on the T-Bird. Stretching, I roll to my back and see Lucy's sleeping form, her back to me. I roll out of bed, clean up and roust Lucy.

After her shower, she goes through my clothes to borrow a few things for work. "How are you feeling?" she asks over coffee, juice and toast in the kitchen.

"As if I seized a day," I reply, walking over to kiss her on the lips.

"Want to seize another?" she murmurs. "I get off at four."

Slide between her and the counter and kiss her lips again. "I'll pick you up."

"Take me by my place to pick up some clothes." Lucy's hands are under my shirt, her fingertips touching my stomach lightly. "Mm-mm," she murmurs as she kisses me. "It's a sin to have such a tiny waist and a perfect ass at 35," says Lucy. "It's also a sin to have such expensive suits in your closet."

Sliding away, I say, "Let's go."

"So your interview is tomorrow, seven a.m.," says Lucy a few minutes later as we glide swiftly through the cool air and nearly deserted streets. "Yep." I get the feeling that she wants to ask what I'm going to do today. She's right if she thinks the question will irritate me.

At the Row, Lucy slides out, says, "'Bye," and walks down Virginia Street. Back out to Virginia Street and accelerate west and north. The hairs on my neck are standing up, but I don't see anyone following me. At the dojo, I pull in a couple car lengths behind a BMW 318i idling at the curb and await my turn. Finally, I pull in and park. The hairs on my neck settle down.

The sessions are brutal. Near the end, I go up against a guy who cuts across the back of my legs but my strike to his unprotected throat is a killing blow that ends it. After bowing, we join the others in stretches that maintain flexibility. Ten years ago, my mind wandered, but I focus on the stretches now. In the dressing rooms, the other women and I receive massages. Later, at home, I work on bibliographical references for my thesis.

Drive to Pere headquarters to visit Ume, board chair and CEO. Ume is a small woman, part Ainu and part Japanese. When we found each other, she was working in a whorehouse, the property of many men. Today, Ume is a multi-millionaire with a husband and several children. She also has personal property in the US and Japan as well as other places in the world. Her enemies and even some of her friends call her the spider.

As I move through the elevators and hallways, people who know me and know about the crews watching Pere ask the same questions: "What about the people who are watching Pere and Baron Ranch, Jill? They're obviously those thugs out of New Jersey. Why do you allow them to continue watching and threatening us as they do?" I do not answer.

Once I'm in her office, Ume brings me tea and sits beside me as I relax. Ume says, "Your godson started Pop Warner Football and fifth grade, Jill. He asks about you every day."

"I'll see KMark next weekend," I tell her as we sit close, our shoulders touching. "I'm taking him to the Manhattan Beach house. We have seats for the Chargers at the Raiders in LA that Monday night. We'll be back here Tuesday."

"Thank god you're in Reno now," she whispers. "KMark worships you, Jill." When I kiss her forehead, she asks, "Why didn't you answer the staff's questions?" One reason people call her the spider is she always knows everything.

"You know why," I tell her. "How can I hunt them down and kill `em if they don't come after me?" She sits quietly for several seconds before I ask, "So, have you found someone who is our equal, Ume?"

Sighing, Ume whispers, "Yes. She is nearly perfect, Jill." When she says nothing more, I begin to speak, but she says, "No, let the events bring her to you."

"It frightens me at times how much I depend upon you, Ume," I whisper.

"Good," she says, just as softly.

Later, I use a phone in an unoccupied office to tell the graduate school, my folks and Bruno that I'm relocating from Salt Lake City to Reno. The grad school secretary reminds me that I must remain registered continuously until I successfully defend my thesis. My mother asks what I will do if I don't get the job in Reno. Bruno asks when I'm going to park the `Bird and begin driving one of the Buicks.

At four, I glide to a stop at the corner of the Row and Virginia Street as Lucy Lamb steps off the curb. She slips into the seat and closes the door as I pull away. Gives me directions to her condominium and invites me in but I sit in the car as I watch mirrors and rooftops. Lucy walks out in tight jeans and a revealing black top.

"Hope you're not hungry yet," I tell her. "I ate a late lunch."

"Naw," she says, leaning over to kiss me. "Sex and a nap, then we'll go visit some friends of mine."

Later, we clean up, get dressed and call a cab to meet her friends for dinner. One is a doctor. The doc's roly-poly friend has a moderately successful catering business and drinks too much. After dinner, we take a cab to a crowded club, and the three women scatter.

Bored, I walk out for fresh air and see a country bar down the street. Hank Williams Jr. is on the jukebox. At one table, a loner practices nine-ball so I buy a beer and watch. He's pretty good. When he misses his next shot, I step in and run two tables.

He runs the next table, misses the five and extends his hand. Don, he says as I shake his hand. Don's face is crenellated with acne so he has grown a well-trimmed beard to help cover it. When he asks a question, he looks me directly in the eye, listens to every word I say and watches my body language. By that time, we have an audience around us. A couple of the guys are packing. We play defense for a while, but he finally makes the five on a difficult bank shot and runs another table.

Offer to buy him a drink so we sit at the bar and I ask if he knows Bruno Taliafero in Salt Lake.

"Sure I know Bruno," says Don. He stirs his drink for a moment and asks, "How did you make me for a cop?"

I exhale through my nose. "Detective?" I ask.

He nods, and says, "Twelve of my twenty-four years. Bruno has a lot of friends in Nevada, Jill," says Don. "He's a fine detective and a stand-up guy." We both sit quietly for a moment before he asks, "How long have you known Bruno?"

"Since '67," I tell him. "I was only . . . eighteen. Bruno questioned me about a hunch but he dropped it. Later, he looked me up on a different hunch. Dropped that too."

Don purses his lips and nods to himself, as if he just now realized something.

"Four years later, I asked him out. Took him for a drive and fucked his brains out," I say. "Any idea why I'm spilling my guts to you, Don?" He stares into his drink, shrugs and says, "I'm a cop. People tell me things." He turns to look at me and asks, "So you and Bruno, you got plans?"

It's my turn to stare at my drink. "No."

"Why not?" asks Don.

"Don't know," I say, turning to look at him. "I'm going, Don. Got a card?"

He reaches into his shirt pocket and hands me a card—Detective Donello Locaccio.

"No shit," I say, shaking my head.

"Carmine's my younger brother," he says. "Bruno asked us to watch you."

"In that case, do you mind giving me a ride home, Detective Locaccio?"

"Please keep calling me Don," he says, sliding off the barstool, "I'd be happy to give you a ride, Jill."

"Is this watching out for me a cop thing or an Italian thing?" I ask as we walk outside.

"Yes," he says, opening the door of his '80 Bronco for me. Reach across and unlock the door for him as he walks around. When he starts the Bronco, it pops and then makes a little rattle but keeps running. "Goddamn thing," he mutters, "Can't get it to run right."

"Smell the gas? Your air fuel mixture is set a little rich," I tell him, "And your timing's a little retarded. Did you just tune it yourself?"

"Yeah," he says. "Trying to save a few bucks."

"Leave it running. Pop the hood," I tell him, opening his glove box. Grab a flat blade screwdriver, slide out, lift the hood and set the prop rod. The streetlight throws enough light on the engine to illuminate the distributor. Loosen the screw at the base, turn the rotor slightly until the clatter fades away to nothing and then re-tighten the screw. Next, I tighten a screw at the base of the carburetor a quarter turn, listening, sniffing. A little more, and it's running smoothly.

"That's amazing," says Don, when I slide back inside and slam the door. "It's running perfectly." He hands me a clean shop towel.

I toss the screwdriver back into the glove box and lean back, wiping my hands. "Well, not perfectly," I tell him. "Your tappets are wearing and you need a valve job. Don't do your own work, Don. You're not that good at it."

He shakes his head and pulls out. "Where to, Jill?"

"You know Baron Ranch, up in the foothills?"

He gives a low whistle. "Exclusive, with security guards and the whole deal." We ride in silence for a minute. Finally, Don inhales deeply, releases a sigh and says, "Jill, we've got a guy on the inside at Walter's. He told us what happened yesterday."

"Yeah?" I wait, observing my own reaction, which is mild excitement.

"Be careful what you say and do out there," says Don. He pulls up to the gate and stops. The guard is looking at him like Don is dog shit on his shoe. He ignores the guard and looks at me. "Good to meet you, Jill."

"Same here, Don. See you around." I slide out and slam the door. As he pulls away, I begin to walk toward the guard shack when a taxicab pulls up and Lucy piles out, staggering slightly because she's drunk. The guard approaches but I hold out my palm so he backs off. "Hey Lucy, did you have a good time?" I ask.

"What do you care?" she asks.

Okay, try another approach. "You want to come up to the house?" I notice that the cab is still idling. She probably hasn't paid yet.

"I asked a question. You gonna answer?" she asks, belligerently this time.

Turning to the guard, I say, "Get the cart, Yosh." Stepping to the cab, I toss the driver a twenty and tell him to go. Walk up to Lucy and put one arm about her as she slumps against me. I support her until the cart pulls up and then sit with her in the back seat.

We drive up to the house and I carry Lucy inside. Stripping off her clothes, I lay her in my bed and cover her. After taking a shower, I lay down beside her.

The Christmas before he turns 3, Bruno and I give KMark one of those Big Wheel tricycles. While we're talking, the kid hauls it to the top of the stairs—maybe 30 steps in a curving staircase—and rides that damn Big Wheel down, laughing and whooping all the way with that black Lab barking as it follows him. Ume is pregnant with KMark's sister Annie at the time. I thought she was going to die of heart failure.

That witness is undercover—not going to blow his cover over the death of an ex-con.

My sisters and I run at full gallop, drooling at the emptiness in our bellies and the injured doe's fear-scent. She struggles to elude us in the Manzanita thicket, hurrying quietly. There! A hesitant step and the doe stops, quivering. I turn slightly, aiming for the left hindquarter, jaws open, lips curled back.

Snarling fills my ears as I awaken from the wolf dream, heart thudding. Pull on my running gear in the dark. After stretching, I retrieve the fighting sword, the katana, from its lacquered box in the safe and strap it to my back. Check the Colt M1911A1 for an empty chamber and full clip, and then shove the holster inside the back of my pants.

Outside, I find a young Japanese man, dressed in black and also carrying a katana, waiting for me. We take a trail that leads to a firebreak road and run in light from a moon three days off full. We return two hours later in growing daylight. Wave as he veers off toward the guard shack. Inside the house, I stow the weapons, stretch, shower and wriggle into one of my suits. Brush my hair and call a cab to take us to Doc's Place.

Munch fruit as I read about the Mondale-Ferraro presidential campaign against Reagan-Bush. Voter registration drives don't beat Rose Garden speeches, Fritz.

Lucy walks into the kitchen naked and drowsy. Starts the coffee, clutches her bag and stumbles into the bathroom to take a shower. She comes out dressed and looking rested, if not happy. "I don't know how to ask you about last night without sounding petulant," she says.

Two nights with this woman and I'm ready for a break. "I got bored, Lucy," I tell her. "Walked to another bar and met a guy who brought me home."

Hands flop like dying fish on either side of her coffee cup. "Want to know what I did?"

"Not really," I tell her. What's she going to tell me? The bar was loud and obnoxious so I left.

"Okay," she says, her hands flopping again.

The phone rings. The gate guard says the cab has arrived.

"Show time," I tell her. We walk to the cab in the cool, bracing air. Love autumn mornings—my favorite time of year: fresh fruit and vegetables from the harvest, new car and truck models and hunting season—a chance to kill something. We step into the cab and I lean over and kiss her. "Don't you love autumn?" I ask.

She looks at me and says, "Winter is coming. Cold and snow. Great."

"Oh, you're right," I say, "Ski season is almost here."

She releases a sigh. "Any plans for the weekend, Jill?" Lucy asks.

"Yeah, flying back to Salt Lake tonight," I tell her. "Busy moving for a couple weeks. Call you when I get settled."

Lucy looks like she's been punched in the gut as she stares at the light traffic and casinos of downtown Reno. "Well," she murmurs, "Hope your interviews go well."

We pull into the Row, the street beside Doc's Place. "Thanks," I tell her and drop a bill on the front seat. Slide out of the cab and stride toward the front entrance of Doc's. Just as I reach the front door, I hear a sharp wolf whistle.

Smiling, I glance at my watch—a few minutes before seven. As I stride toward the rear of the casino, my eyes follow the staircase to the top. A big woman lifts one hand from the railing and gives a little wave, so I wave back. Must be Louise Northcutt. Her hair is curled and she wears big, tinted glasses. Louise is my height with a masculine set to her shoulders.

"Good morning. You must be Jill Price," she says with a smile, extending her hand.

I shake her hand and say, "You must be Louise Northcutt. It's a pleasure to meet you."